


Safe, here

by gotfanfiction



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Breakdown, i love this, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:54:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26176807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gotfanfiction/pseuds/gotfanfiction
Summary: All he could hear was screaming.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 14
Kudos: 96





	Safe, here

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hehearse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hehearse/gifts).



> I wrote this so fast I got so excited. Enjoy! <3

He walks. Somewhere. He doesn't know, his feet carrying his body but his mind far away. He thinks, maybe, that his ears are ringing, that he is dizzy. That he's lost. 

There were so many. So many, so  _ many,  _ and all of them screaming for help, screaming for him, children crying out, the sickening sounds of flesh being torn from soft bellies; he had tried to find them, but was met only with claws and with teeth, blinded by a light that surrounded him and ripped at his armor like knives.

He knew, somehow, that whatever it was that lurked in the fog was dead, ichor splattered over his face, slicked on his sword. What… what had it been, again? He tried to reach for it, surely he must have known, but it slipped away.

All he could hear was screaming.

*--*

Jaskier was tipsy, rosy from ale and a particularly  _ rousing  _ performance, if he did say so himself, purse and belly full, spirits high. All he needed to really make the night were his friends, laughing with or at him, not that they were ever at hand when he wanted them to be. 

Yennefer was probably off terrorizing the locals for whatever perverse reason; he'd heard her saying something about needing information about something or other, wicked gleam in her eyes, smile sharp. She was usually back before midnight when she went on her little jaunts, and that wasn't too far off from right now, so that was one sorted, after a fashion.

That left Geralt, who'd fucked off the moment he'd gotten Roach stabled, wanting to search the nearby woods for ingredients for his potions. But that had been hours and hours ago; they had reached this town very early in the morning, and  _ really, _ he should have been back by  _ now. _ He was nowhere to be found, and Jaskier checked all the places he could think of, Roach's stall occupied by only herself, the small brothel Witcher free, and he felt a flicker of unease.

Geralt wouldn't have stayed out for so long unless something had happened. Jaskier had promised him a bath, told him that if he was lucky, he'd rub his favored oil into his sorest spots, not that the Witcher would ever admit to having a favorite scented oil, or that he regularly had it applied by his friend to the worst knots of scar tissue.

Damn it, where was he? Jaskier crept closer and closer to the edge of the buildings, flattened earth easing into soft grass, the trees of the local forest looking gnarled and unwelcoming in the dark. He wished he'd thought to bring a torch, or a lantern, or even a candle, the darkness creeping up, shadows twisting into the corners of his eyes, and he swallowed down his inexplicable fear long enough to call out, "Geralt! Where are you?"

He cursed his luck when he heard the shuffle of boots over dead leaves and twigs, cracks like thunder in the quiet, tried again, "Geralt? Please tell me that's you?" 

Jaskier forced himself forward, concern winning the battle with fear in his chest, at least for the moment, and he saw, just at the base of a tree, something move. He would know that streak of white anywhere, and relief drove any terror from him, and he walked briskly towards his errant friend, a scolding on his tongue, but he drew up short, alarm rising quickly. 

Geralt didn't even look up, head swiveling back and forth, sword dragging in the dirt, the pommel hooked into a tear in his glove, and that was clearly the only reason he still had it with him at all, hand hanging llimp at his side. 

"Geralt?" Jaskier reached out, touched his friend's arm, and still, nothing. "Geralt. Geralt! Look at me!" He stepped closer than may have been safe, breath drawing in sharp at the sight of his friend’s face. 

Eyes black as pitch, bleeding into the skin around them, and Jaskier had always wondered  _ doesn't that hurt? _ Face slack, mouth moving, soundless and oh, no.  _ Oh, _ Geralt was  _ crying, _ tears streaking down his cheeks, and he didn't know what to do, didn't know how to fix this, heart squeezing up tight.

He wrapped his arm around slumped shoulders, and Geralt let himself be led, guided away from the edge of the woods, no protest, no digging his heels in. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

*--*

Yennefer stepped through the portal into the inn her travelling companions had settled on earlier that day, satisfied with the outcome to her  _ little jaunt, _ as Jaskier had called it, happy to be back to her friends, not that anyone would ever hear her claim them as such. 

She opened the door to the room her boys were sharing, ready to loudly remark on how early old men went to bed, expecting Jaskier to screech at her about  _ privacy  _ and _ respecting boundaries,  _ not at all prepared for what she found.

Geralt was sitting, insensate, pale as bone, tears leaking fat and black from his potion-darkened eyes, Jaskier kneeling before him, desperation writ frantic across his face as he pleaded one moment and soothed the next, hands briskly rubbing the Witcher’s arms and his thighs in turn. His armor was scattered all over the floor, clearly tossed aside without thought, without care.

Yennefer, discomforted by the scene set before her, made to turn away, but-

But her heart, the cold thing, forever betraying her, it  _ hurt _ for him, for them both, for them all, and she rushed to their sides, instead, helped Jaskier finish disrobing Geralt, pulled the heat from the fire to warm the water in the tub that had been sitting for who knows how long. And he’s bleeding, but slowly, the wounds already closing up, and she deems it safe enough for him to bathe.

Jaskier croons some nonsense lullabies, his voice low and sweet, as he cleans every bit of Geralt he can reach, holding him up with his free hand, since Geralt is in no shape to do it himself. Yennefer perches on a stool, carefully, more careful than she’s ever been in her life, she thinks, washing his hair.

She remembers, suddenly, dimly, a time before her mother married the man who had never been her father, a time where her mother would hold her weeping daughter close and say,  _ Be calm, my love, my darling. You are safe, here. You are loved. _

It’s tripe, overly sentimental,  _ foolish. _ It may even be that this is something she wished for so greatly that she tricked herself into believing it true. 

But still. She whispers these half remembered words to her Witcher, as their bard keeps him from drowning, as tears drip from his chin into the bathwater. Slowly, as she speaks, the black recedes from his skin, eyes brightening with awareness. Geralt looks up at them both, clothes soaked through, Jaskier, who was weeping along with him, Yennefer, who was so very gently combing the tangles from his hair.

Yennefer sighed, Jaskier mirroring the sound, relief swelling in her chest. Geralt leaned back, stinging eyes finally closing. He had returned to them, and later, when they were all dry, and fed, and most likely a little drunk, perhaps he would tell them what happened. For now, they kept to their work, unwilling to stop until they were certain their Witcher was calm, and fully back to himself.

**Author's Note:**

> Hang out with me on twitter! @gotfanfiction


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